


Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John's Pain, and One Time He Couldn't

by WaffleWarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF John, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Whump, John Watson is a Good Friend, John Whump, John is a Bit Not Good, Medical Inaccuracies, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaffleWarrior/pseuds/WaffleWarrior
Summary: John is a soldier. He can take the pain....sometimes.✦Queeeeee~!2500 hits oh my gosh! Thank you guys for reading!✦1: Acute Exhaustion2: The Thames River3: Fear of Fireworks4: Never the Nightmares5: Lost and Found+1: A Brush with a Bullet <----> (comment if you would like a part two!)





	1. Acute Exhaustion

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something I've been working on for a while!  
> Enjoy!

Christmastime in London was usually tame. Children scooped up clumpy snow and formed soggy, slouching snowmen. Uncovered noses and ears blushed at the crisp breezes that whispered along the town. Christmas trees seem out of place among melting snow clusters. The weather was rather sunny that Christmas Eve; Sherlock’s definition of a day for chasing down criminals.

These were the days Sherlock was at his finest. He was a child on Christmas morning, anxious for a new mystery to distract his busy, vast mind. Most nights, the violin sang hours before dawn, its tunes rapid and lively. John often awoke to the orchestral music, and by the intensity, he could assume when Sherlock was pining for a chase. 

John already understood the equation: winter equaled early chases. There was no question.

However, it was a constant battle for each roommate to cooperate on acceptable times of interruption. Sherlock never learned: rushing into John's room at the fresh hour of two o'clock in the morning. Today, he'd been disturbingly animated after Lestrade had texted the man details of a runaway criminal. He was nearly dancing in delight.

John had startled awake at Sherlock's break-in, squinting under the blinding light emitting from the ceiling. At first, he had been bewildered and dumbfounded, unable to process what he was witnessing. Then, John blinked and waved off the detective's excessive details until the man scurried away in a feverish skip. John internally groaned as he checked the time. He’d had barely an hour of rest.

The trick was to get out of bed. John was not an early riser, but years of military training taught him to pry himself from bed covers and focus on the daylight ahead of him. Today was no different than usual. John had accustomed his life to Sherlock's rude awakenings.

John was a soldier. He had survived many lifestyles through his adaptation of warfare, and sleep deprivation was one of them. He had gone several days with less than two hours of sleep once, only caffeine keeping him at a coherent state. Coffee would do today.

His journey from his bedroom to the kitchen was no particular bother, usually, but with days of scrambling to gain a wink of sleep, it was an effort. His legs were numb with a static feeling of ants crawling out of his skin. His footfalls were clumsy, scuffing against the floor.

John brewed some coffee that morning, and he was not budging from the kitchen until it was done. Otherwise, Sherlock would wear him down before noon, and John couldn't put up with another day of tripping about like a zombie.

Sherlock would pace, he knew, nagging John to forget the coffee! You’ll be fine! He would complain, pleading the doctor to just buy some in town. But John had learned the hard way that Sherlock was not one for waiting lines and coffee shops, and they would end up ditching John's much-needed caffeine. Those days John had been miserable and exhausted.

He checked his mug, inspecting for traces of morbid forgotten experiments. Dubbing it as clean, he poured himself a warm cup. The bitterness cleared his thoughts and he welcomed it wholly. Lord knows the last time he'd felt awake.

Sherlock had had enough of this nonsense. Every morning he twiddled his thumbs while John took his precious time. Lestrade had specifically stated the range of time they had to catch the criminal. If Sherlock didn't arrive soon enough, he would miss his chance. “Should I warn you that lamb brains sat in that mug last night? I was testing the acidity level with the coffee as a way to pass time. There were intriguing results.” He pointed in disinterest to the mug cupped in John's hands. It was true; however, in a moment of thought, Sherlock didn't bother to mention that the mug had actually cycled through the sink and was now sanitary and safe to drink from. What John didn't know wouldn't hurt him, as the saying went.

John coughed on his sip of coffee, “And you didn't think to tell me until now?” he spluttered in annoyance, lifted a fist to cover his mouth while he gave a light cough. He now examined his coffee with distaste, a disgusted frown carved into the wrinkles in his brow while he pictured lamb brain chunks soaking in his coffee.

Sherlock considered. “It won't kill you,” he added, offering a deceptive smile to the doctor while standing and tightening his scarf. Tugging his collar upward, he despicably asked, “Do you really need coffee this morning?"

John sighed, setting the cup on the counter. He knew Sherlock was trying to manipulate him, but he didn't think he could take another round of coffee with Sherlock constantly badgering him. “I suppose not.” He admitted reluctantly. He would regret this.

Sherlock snatched John's arm and hauled him toward the door. “Hurry! Time is precious!” Sherlock flew down the stairs, the door shuddering open at his eager wrench of the handle. John was at his heels.

“And why did Lestrade ask us to catch him instead of the Yard?” John finally huffs.

“Directly? Ah, no, there was no verbal exchange or text messaging. I may have come across the information by observing Grant’s pockets, fingernails, and an envelope I borrowed off his desk. It was blackmail if you must know. The Yard could hardly take action.”

“When you say borrowed… you mean stole? Pickpocketed? I doubt you'll return it.”

Sherlock actually smiled. “I plan to return it in pair with our criminal. I doubt it will take long.”

There was a long pause. “You… do know Lestrade’s first name is Greg… right? Not Grant.”

John received a spiritless hum.

To John, the cab ride felt stretched and extensive. To spare him the humiliation and save his dignity from the speculation of Sherlock Holmes, John forced his heavy eyes to pry open during the ride to the scene. His head would softly bounce with the jumps of the road, and he caught it before it had the chance to loll.

John shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting as a way to occupy his drowsiness. He was very aware of Sherlock in that moment, so to seem less obvious, he turned his head to stare out the window… or so it seemed. John let his eyelids sag as his body swayed rhythmically with the car.

Sherlock was not a blind man. John’s military posture had wilted and was now molded into the side of the car door like melted chocolate. When the car turned, John leaned with inertia. Though, rather than feeling guilty, a prideful smugness grew within him and he grinned at John's sluggish form. Perhaps… he'd been a tad harsh with the coffee. After all, Sherlock did owe the man; John tolerated Sherlock's constant, tireful, daily demandings. 

It was actually a short ride there; the case was within a short range of their flat. When the cab lurched to a subtle stop, John jolted up from the inner lip of the car door and grunted softly. 

There was a wave of exhaustion that hit John like a bus when he plodded out of the cab. It struck him dumbly, his vision blurred as he looked upon the shabby wreath leaning against the door of the flat in front of him. John stared unblinkingly until Sherlock was done inspecting the house. He yawned pathetically as Sherlock ranted on. This standing was beginning to chip at his remainder of his energy.

Sherlock snatched John's arm, pointing with his other to a window of the house. He whispered barely about the breeze tickling their faces, “The man is still in there, John. I see him. Now, according to previous calculations and a bit of monitoring, he should...”

A shadow of a man shown darkly behind thin curtains, and the door jutted open by the twist of a handle. The hesitancy of the criminal’s steps was incredibly suspicious.

“...be leaving now.” Sherlock spoke even lighter, ensuring the man would not hear him. There was a slyness to the tone of his voice, proud of his cleverness. Then, he pounced with a rap of feet signaling his exit. He had a criminal to catch.

John might as well have been a helium balloon at that point. It was discouraging that John could actually relate to the lame, latex object; like a companion to be paraded around with by a giddy child, only to be easily lost in the thrill of a different game. It wasn’t an uplifting metaphor, but the more John continued to picture it, the more real it became.

And John was not amused in the slightest. “Sherlock!” He hollered in exasperation. He stumbled past the house, dashing toward the narrow silhouette of the detective. John was a few blocks behind, and struggling to gain speed with his shorter legs. John was not as nimble as his flatmate; he would knock into pedestrian’s shoulders and trip on the cracks in the sidewalk. Yet the determined little man kept going.

John’s energy was deteriorating rapidly. As he rounded alley corners he’d sense his heels stutter and his shoes slip on the slushy ice when he hesitated. A few of the brick walls lurched and swooped into John's vision as began to feel dizzy. He blinked at his headache, awfully confused as to where Sherlock had bounded off to. He stumbled forward and backward, nauseous.

John merely breathed, collapsing against the alley wall for back support. He could only sense the irregular pulse of his heart in his ears and his heaving lungs attempting to dispel the ill feeling. John was a doctor, and he knew when a man was going to faint. And that man was himself.

He eased his way to the dusty floor, so he was not to crack his head open if he succumbed to the advancing black dots edging the corners if his eyesight. His ears began to ring and throb. John's neck nodded dumbly as he placed a palm along his forehead. His brain was swollen and sluggish. “Sher..?” He grunted out pants, waves of exhaustion rushing over him. He was going to pass out.

The next thing John knew, he had slumped into his knees and his eyes had rolled back into his head. He didn't hear the subtle thud.

In a dank and clammy London alleyway laid an army doctor, ignorant to any caw of a nearby pigeon or splutter of a car engine. The brisk wind flapped and ruffled his hair, but he paid no mind. A polished pistol lay snugly in his pocket, but his hand did not twitch near it in anticipation. Time and space was just a peaceful, blank slate that unconsciousness allowed him. Absolute harmony was a rare gift that John Watson never acquired.

The lull of silence broke when John's eyes awakened once more with a stare of vacancy. He slowly acknowledged his surroundings, now wary. He stayed limp for a while, gathering his bearings and recalling recent events.

John knew that after fainting one should stay low and allow their blood to circulate, but boredom was a determined thing, so John lifted his head. Shakily, he managed to balance himself, kneeling with his shoulder pressed into the side of the building. He staggered on the soul of his feet, blood now rushing from his head to his toes. John curled his knees, hunching over to recover stability. It took him fifteen minutes to finally stand and regain his senses, although he had a raging headache.

A slim figure bounded around the corner in high spirits. “Ah! John! Where have you been?” With hopping, delighted feet, he closed in on his friend. “The criminal has already been caught! It was incredibly tedious and I… John? Are you alright?” _Of course he isn't alright, you idiot._ John's physical outlook was worn and tense, his eyes closing frequently as if breathing was a labor. His weight was leaned on the wall, nearly slumping against the brick. He was dehydrated and drained of energy. John Watson never staggered about.

Sherlock fought the urge to sulk and decided his friend was more valuable to him than a peculiar case. “I… suppose it is a bit early in the morning to be tearing through my most intriguing cases. What do you think of grabbing a bite to eat? Those few sips of coffee won't have done you any good. You… can blame me for that.” He noted the bruises around John's eyes, like that of a raccoon. “How about you rest as well? I'm sure I can occupy myself with a few elementary experiments while you nap.” Sherlock advised nervously. It was pointless; he had been the selfish one, while John had reluctantly climbed out of bed to amuse Sherlock's narcissistic babbling. John consistently complied with Sherlock's wishes until he was keeling over and winded.

John inhaled sharply and put on his brave face, reassuring smile included. “I'm okay, Sherlock, really. Just slept a bit rough.”

Sherlock stared for a second before nodding in uncertainty. He wouldn’t spare John of his countering deduction, but first, they were going to Speedy's restaurant.


	2. The Thames River

The Thames River had always been a marvel of London to John. It mirrored the vibrancy of the city like a painting. At night, lit houses glittered like stars within the murky water. Cars zipping past sent streaks of white light rippling. Boats drifted along in serenity, blinking soft yellows and reds. John was no artist, but he appreciated Thames nonetheless.

John jabbed at his noodles, twirling the fork until they wrapped upward around the silverware. He had chosen to get a bite at a humble restaurant with a gorgeous view of Thames.

This entire week, Sherlock had been oddly tolerant of John's ‘dull’ need for a fulfilling dinner and satisfying rest. It pushed his more drawn out cases to nightfall, and shortened their daylight drastically. Sherlock had been oddly compliant all day, with not one word of opposition. Although an antsy tap of the detective's hyper fingers told John that today was another chase. John didn't know how the man did it, but when Sherlock longed for a criminal to hunt, they would flee like flighty fowl in the sight of a fox.

The detective had yet to lift his fork, for his appetite was craving a heated pursuit rather than a heated meal. His eyes roamed past John, and his scrutiny fell upon busy pedestrians. 

After several minutes of John dining peacefully, Sherlock sprung up, towering over the table in enthusiasm. “It’s them! The two criminals! Look! I cannot believe our luck.” 

Sherlock pointed frantically out the window. “I've been observing each passerby for a solid twenty minutes. There was a 75% chance they would show. I may or may not have manipulated your choice of restaurant. Finally something worthwhile!” He was out of the booth, throwing open the glass doors dramatically, coat whipping in a new breeze. “John! Before they leave! Hurry!”

John Watson was already on his toes, of course. “What'd they do?” He panted as his feet pounded upon the cold cement.

Sherlock laughed genuinely as he huffed beside his friend, “They murdered someone, John. Obviously! The crime yesterday. Lestrade mentioned them, I deduced from there. There was a high probability, so I chanced it. I was mostly unimpressed this morning, really.”

John raced along the open streets, weaving through the crowd. “You weren't going to?”

“Of course I was. I’m just keeping them on their toes,” he said.

John accepted the comment with a smirk, noting such as he sprinted toward their culprit. He was at the heels of a proclaimed criminal and was ready to pounce. When John Watson was focused on something, his concentration narrowed in on the object he was after. He was a tabby on the trail of a slithering rat… or a criminal. It depended. Sometimes John couldn't tell the difference.

John didn't notice the bitter January breeze, the crunch of powdery snow, nor, most importantly, how soggy the ground now was. Perhaps he perceived it as melting ice, but that was far from correct.

He had cornered the criminal against a metal railing as they both tussled to gain the upper hand. The desperate fight over the gun forced John's wrist to maneuver in painful directions, but John held firm. 

He pummeled the butt of the gun toward the criminal's brow, yet they managed to cleverly duck away. John staggered forward in unbalance and was elbowed strongly in the gut, which left him winded. As he wheezed for a full breath, his dexterity left him, and he wound up snug against the railing, leaning over the edge perilously. 

The criminal pushed him backward by the throat, forcing John to lean farther out just to breathe. Water splashed at his heels and dampened his shoes with a soggy cold. The bridges were lower here, allowing the water to bite at his ankles. After a frozen moment of realization, John connected the dots to his situation. He was being choked over the railing of the Thames River, dangerously close to tumbling into its chilly depths.

John's eyes widened and attempted to swat away the criminal. Although as his breath left him, so did his strength. He grasped the edges of the railing, holding on for dear life as he was suffocated. His choice was either no air or a very cold swim. He couldn't find a way to subdue the man without dropping like a stone into the Thames with an ominous plink. 

John growled, yanking away his arm and slamming it into the man’s nose while stepping on his shoe. The criminal grunted and forced John's shoulder back, so he was halfway over the bridge.

John was a great soldier; his morals were secure and rational, his sensibility was constantly overridden by courage, and his selflessness was endless. So John did what any soldier would do: sacrifice for the greater good. If he couldn't win his side of the battle, he would at least bring the enemy down with him.

Sherlock shouted at him whilst he fought the other criminal, thunderous and fearful. “John! Lestrade and officers should arrive in a matter of a minute! Do not do what I know you're going to!” His voice was frantic as he dodged the swift criminal’s blows to glance at John. He was nearly panicking, which was surreal; his eyes were widened and weren't restraining his fear to John's next deducted action. “John! You'll go into shock! Don’t! Wait! _Don't!_ ”

John let go of the railing to seize the arm of his attacker, and with all his might, he hurtled himself off the edge into Thames.

**_“John!”_**

John was no idiot. He knew what freezing water would do to him. He would need to regulate his breathing and his limbs so he wouldn't drown. If Sherlock was correct, Lestrade would rescue him soon anyway. John wouldn't have let himself tumble off the railing limply and allow Sherlock to take on both criminals. He wouldn't have that.

John’s vision was enveloped by the pale blue December sky, and then misery overtook him. His skin erupted in a frigid burning. He choked back his gasp reflex, waiting until he was above the surface to do so. It took great effort to wheeze in control and push his aching legs to tread upward. His lungs were near hyperventilation, but he swallowed and coughed in order to regulate this.

The continued scuffling above him was muted as John bobbed on the surface and currents splashed with a freezing sting at his numbing skin. Eventually, Sherlock had conquered his opponent. _“Idiot!”_ Sherlock shouted down furiously. “Why didn't you _wait?!_ ” He was stationed above the railing, tense and watchful of John's activity. He was helpless.

The voices along the bridge began to gurgle as John submerged within the rapid depths. John had to wrestle to stay above as the waves crashed into his back and drenched him once again in a flood of polar-like water.

Sherlock turned away for a moment to bellow barely out of John's hearing, “Lestrade…!” “...I will have…” “...personally fired if…!” “...John is…” “...Thames.” 

John only heard bits and pieces.

Suddenly, hands were hooking at his shoulders, plunging John underneath. He sputtered a heaving breath as he managed to struggle out of the locking grip. John placed his weight upon their shoulders and dunked them in. He wobbled and whacked his elbows atop the man's head and climbed his way to air. The criminal had attempted to drown him, now struggling and twisting. John no longer felt too guilty about launching him into the river anymore.

He panted and paddled stiffly; his limbs were nearly paralyzed and his muscles were frigid. He clawed at the concrete wall, clutching at the edge. His movements were weak, if present at all.

When a palm grasped firmly at his back, John twisted and slugged the arm, petrified of descending to the rocky bottom. But the hand pulled upward, despite the blows. An instructive voice yelled over the whirring of air around them, “John? I'm going to need you to relax.”

This was the first time John had acknowledged the helicopter flying above him. It was prepared to fish him out of the river, but if he continued to flop about like a panicked bass, that would become a more difficult mission. John stilled and allowed himself to be hauled. He to merely existed after the exhausting few minutes of nearly drowning.

Sherlock was there, too. He hovered as the paramedics tended to John.

John’s voice was hoarse. “Sh-sher...” He cleared his throat, and after a pause, he continued, shivering. “The man is… sti-still in... th-th-the river.”

The paramedic tending to John perked up at the new information, alarmed. “Still?”

Sherlock didn't seem fazed by the news. “He was a mass murderer, terrorist, and professionally trained serial killer. When we reached him, he had already drowned due to your blows at his head, neck, and abdomen. He likely would have faced a worse penalty for his crimes, regardless. His accomplice is currently in the hands of the Yard. Do not bother worrying about him, John.”

John pinched his lips, shuddering as the paramedics wrapped multiple blankets around his freezing self. “You n-need to st-st-start… f-filling me in on… your ob-observations, Sh-sh-sh-sherlock. I was really... t-take… taking ch-chances there.”

Sherlock frowned seriously. “That was idiotic. There were easier ways to weaken him, John. That was poor judgement. However, know that I don't blame you. Oxygen hadn't been entering your brain properly.” Sherlock explained, naturally.

John furrowed his brows, disagreeing, although he didn't argue. John had been perfectly aware of his decision, and Sherlock knew that as well. But if that was what Sherlock would excuse it as, John would leave it at that. No use digging a deeper hole.

Sherlock watched as police bustled about the scene in disinterest, “You're a soldier, John. Surrender will never become a survival instinct. You constantly push to have the control. That's what war did to you. Emphasis on the you.” Sherlock’s eyes glinted in fondness at the soldier's bravery. “You seem to have averted the nuisance of hypothermia, hm?”

“Yes, seems I have.” John replied thoughtfully.

Sherlock nodded. “And you're alright?”

John smiled warmly, despite his dipped body temperatures. He kept his teeth from chattering. “A bit chilly still, but yes. I'll be fine, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored his gut demanding he call out the blatant lie, and accepted the fib without any further commenting. He wouldn't push it.


	3. Fear of Fireworks

John was never sure of the extent of what the war had done to his mental health. At first, his therapist pinned it as post-traumatic stress disorder. After the battlefields and his scarring injuries, it seemed realistic. But then, John met the Holmes brothers, and they turned the soldier 180 degrees away from his therapist's claim. They told him that he missed the war and adrenaline. He was addicted to the action and the race.

John had no doubt both were true to an extent, yet he questioned both theories. As a doctor, self-diagnosis was his natural go-to. Perhaps that was how he coped, and maybe it helped to see himself as a client and not as a victim.

He had always been dependent on the adrenaline rushes. It's what had drawn him to the rank of an army doctor. He'd been in the medical field at the time, and the army seemed like a reasonable position. He definitely missed the war for the thrill and action.

But there was also another side of John. The side of John whose leg limped when he walked, or whose arm throbbed sorely when recalling the battlefield. The John who woke up nearly crying after a sickening nightmare of recalling a bullet lodging within his skin. The John whose eyes darkened at a mere reminder of those days.

John was a complicated man, no matter what others informed him. Even through all the suffering of war, John could still fire a gun with a steady hand and he could overlook his psychosomatic limp in an intense chase. This was possible simply because Sherlock influenced him, manipulated him. He was a genius, after all. Real life was a game to Sherlock Holmes, so he dissociated easily from most emotions linked to particular cases. He presented John with the facts, so that's what John hung onto.

In fact, Sherlock had managed to mend most of John's war trauma just by busying his life with awkward situations and perplexing cases to focus on. John almost forgot his past life when he began to revolve around his new role in participating in crime solving and holding the title of Sherlock's only best friend.

And although John thrived upon a good adrenaline kick, he couldn't ignore the signs of PTSD, however slight. Because there was only one thing Sherlock would never cure, and that was his inevitable negative mental reaction to the sound of fireworks.

Fireworks had always been a trigger point to John, which utterly confused him. He’d had bombs strapped onto him by the psychopath Moriarty, watched a landmine go off in the Hounds of Baskerville case, and had a gun to his head in the Scandal of Bulgaria. Yet fireworks set him off. John loathed the crackling of colors that lined the sky.

John was at edge on New Year's Eve. As the hours crept up to midnight, something within him grumbled sickly. His anxiety reigned him inside.

The first time John had learned of this trigger was before he had ever met Sherlock Holmes. There had been a fireworks show with a new date, standing in the dew of the grass patiently. Before John even had time to process the cracks of the fireworks above, he was back in the battlefield. 

The experience was not one John wanted to recall, so he focused and assigned himself a simple task: making tea. Making tea had always managed to calm John's nerves. The light, fresh, orchid fragrance soothed the night air. It never failed to wash away his worries as the warm aromas melted into the flat.

It was only a few hours before midnight struck, so the flat was asleep. Only the streetlight that filtered through the windows allowed moonlight to illuminate the corners of the flat. John sipped his tea and tiptoed to the living room and he let memory guide him down the hall.

John froze when he noticed Sherlock's unmoving silhouette on the couch; his hands were praying under his chin with his feet propped up onto the armrest. It was unlikely he was asleep, though his eyes were closed. John considered retiring to his bedroom, but he continued his way to his chair and taste his tea.

“You're up late.” Sherlock hummed.

John shifted in his seat, “Yes.”

Sherlock peeked an eye open, observing John. He was rather tense, gripping his tea close to his chest. Usually, John's default stance was his soldier posture, and not so… slouchy. “Something on your mind?” Sherlock inquired.

John took another drink of his tea, forcing a passive expression. He failed. “New years spirit.” John offered tautly.

Sherlock gave a wary glance. Something about the way John replied didn't settle with the detective. Perhaps he could relieve John of this with a case. He cleared his throat. “Well, Lestrade suggested I observe the town before midnight. Fireworks tend to cover gunshots, and we will need to watch for potential shootouts. We might even get ourselves a case. Care to accompany me?”

John was surprised, to say vaguely, though not pleasantly. The pit of his stomach folded in dread. “Oh, sure,” was his strenuous response.

As Sherlock left the living room with narrowed his eyes, contemplating what was bothering John. Although nothing registered as potentially bothersome. Sherlock would need to dig into the topic further, though preferably not now. Sherlock was determined to distract John. After all, Sherlock owed him immensely for past experiences he'd endured.

John left to the kitchen. He steeled himself as he discarded the rest of his tea. There was nothing to fear about fireworks. He had encountered much worse is his life, so he wasn't going to allow a little explosion to handicap him. He was a soldier.

John had always suspected his reason for dreading fireworks was for the random timing. John had never fancied storms for this reason, as well. The thunder got to his head. With a gun, you knew where it was. You knew who fired it. You knew you were under attack, or at least, in John's mind.

It was a messy concept.

Sherlock was wrapping his scarf securely around his neck and proceeded to pull up his collar. He was still uncertain to the cause of John's tension, and it annoyed him endlessly.

John was failing to ignore Sherlock's prying eyes, constantly shifting his stance. He adjusted his posture and straightened his ever-failing mask.

Sherlock saw right through it.

“Prepare yourself John, keep your eyes peeled for suspicious movement. The firework show should be in a matter of minutes.”

 _Don’t remind me,_ John thought dizzily. His breathing was stressed now, with each respiration as a slight panic and a wish that he’d outright refused the case. Regret bubbled in his gut. He felt rather faint, favoring his heels as he braced himself for the distress to come. His eyes darted about, and he found himself searching for future exits. Just in case something went wrong. No harm in that knowledge, right?

Sherlock could practically feel the waves of anxiety rolling off of the soldier. He turned to him, and for the first time in his life, he was hesitant. “John? You're… you're beginning to hyperventilate.”

John swallowed thickly and blinked up at Sherlock in detachment, not registering what the detective had told him. “Hm?” He inhaled through his nostrils suddenly. “No no, I'm good.” He cleared his throat, though his breathing was still shallow and heavy. John strived for a viable reason for his breathing patterns.“Just, ah, smells nice, you know? Midnight air.” He wheezed. It was extremely unconvincing.

Sherlock stated in exasperation, “You're not a bloodhound, John. You're breathing is labored. Are you… panicking? You are. You're panicking.” Sherlock stared at John.

John was getting antsier by the minute and was now avoiding eye contact. He could get through this. He could. He just needed rational thoughts. “No.” He replied sharply.

“Yes, you are. You're a terrible liar. What's troubling you?” Sherlock was baffled.

John’s tone was snappy, “Nothing.” He rested his hands on his knees, and forced even, deep breaths. “I just need to… catch… my breath.”

Sherlock watched as John attempted to regain his composure. “John?” Concern seeped into the question.

John glanced up at Sherlock, who was lingering in clear discomfort and although he would never admit it, hovering in worry. John hesitated to state the truth. Lord knew Sherlock would have a fit once he learned John's cause for anxiety.

And, God, he was a grown man! John Watson could handle fireworks. It was irrational to fear them. He had never once had a bad experience with fireworks, but now that war blended with its loud sounds, he was crippled to suffering panic attacks beneath their harmless wrath. It was ridiculous and humiliating.

Sherlock reached out a hand, “John, it's-”

And suddenly, the sky was cracking with an enemy bomb. John nearly keeled over flinching. He grit his teeth at the overwhelming fear. 

There was a shredding of shrapnel at his face. Blasts of dust made him want to cough as his lungs itched. As he touched the ground his senses reminded him where he was. The sand was like smooth concrete; there was no grainy texture. The Afghanistan sun wasn't beaming down in scalding waves, but the moon simmered in the night sky. John remembered where he was for a moment, but the memory was ingrained into his eyelids. The momentary flashes burning into his London surroundings.

And Lord, Sherlock was probably wondering what was going on. John licked his lips in unease and he battled his anxiety, “It's the fireworks. I’m… I'm afraid of fireworks. I can't- I thought I could fight it.” He was sweating beads.

Sherlock instantly moved beside him, though there was a shuffling and adjusting of something John could not see. He was too busy mentally readying for the next launch.

Another blast went off, and John slammed his hands over his ears, now prepared for the noise to come. He stumbled a bit, with waves of Afghanistan desert rolling in and enveloping his mind like a constricting python. He squeezed his eyes to avoid seeing it, but his mind reminded him exactly what a bullet wound felt like. His leg and arm suddenly ached terribly with a sharp buzz.

Sherlock was removing John’s clasped hands away from his ears and pushed them aside. Before he could protest, a cloth was wound tightly over John's ears like a thick headband, and John stared in astonishment at the detective. His shock of Sherlock's thoughtfulness shooed away any other thought of war as if it had never been a part of him. Had Sherlock just given up his scarf for John to have earmuffs? He had, hadn't he? What-

Sherlock clutched John by the shoulders and began pushing him to move. “How do you ever tolerate storms?” 

John winced as a muffled boom erupted behind him. “They're not as bad. Storms rumble different than bombs or fireworks, and we never had many world-shaking storms down in Afghanistan. It is a desert, you know.”

Sherlock blocked John's view of the fireworks, even though it wasn't the color that triggered John. If anything, it kept him grounded and stable. Color was one thing he rarely saw back in the war. It had always been dusty browns and tans, and the occasional, unfortunate blood red.

John poked at the scarf and admired the fabric. Blue. There was never blue in Afghanistan. Just a pale, milky sky.

Sherlock flashed John a look of fond incredulity. “You’re alright, then?”

When John nodded, the flaps of the scarf waved at Sherlock. “Yeah, I think I might have a cup of tea, you?”

Sherlock bit back his comment for a moment. He debated whether if he should mention John's shaking hands, but he thought less of it. “Yes, that sounds... nice. Thank you.”


	4. Never the Nightmares

After two years of mourning, Sherlock had finally returned. His arrival had left a sour taste the air, and John was too stubborn to accept it. Eventually, however, he did, and they were back on their feet to the addiction of solving crimes and exploring mysteries. The bitter memory lingered, however.

That day, John and Sherlock had wound up with a case of a man manipulating victims into becoming suicidal. It had gone over well for the most part; Sherlock deduced their next destination and they saved the person from commiting the permanent crime. They had been confident, yet, today, after failing to save a victim from jumping off a roof, John was frazzled and distraught. Nonetheless, he was a soldier, so he bandaged the wound and pretended it didn’t hurt. Although, he had kept to himself the rest of the day while resting in his chair with a silent grief. He replayed the image with self-loathing, helpless as he’d been with Sherlock.

John was not up for anything today.

“Flask, please.”

Upon hearing the instruction, John sighed. Sherlock was two feet away from the flask, huddled around his kitchen table and fixated on his experiment, while John was settled comfortably on his seat in the living room.

“I said, fla-”

“I heard you,” John huffed a breath as he stood and strode into the mess of a kitchen. He exaggerated his actions as he picked the flask up and extended his arm to Sherlock in exasperation.

“Examine it.”

John blinked. “What?”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Examine it.” Sherlock broke his concentration and look expectantly at John.

John offered a baffled expression to the man before him. “Being a doctor... doesn’t mean I can identify... strange liquids. Can’t you do that? I thought you could identify a hundred different types of tobacco.”

Sherlock quirked an amused eyebrow at John's response. “Not even relatively close, John. I can identify 243 different kinds of tobacco ash. Were you never paying attention in Belgravia?” Sherlock observed John in suspiciously, but then paused, rethinking his statement. His face dropped with hazy remembrance of that day, having shouted I know ash! at a local bar, following a sassy snap of his fingers and a wobbly glare. How humiliating. “Oh. Never mind, we had been inebriated, hadn’t we? Well, then.” He encouraged John with an innocent smile. “Go on, examine it.”

John fidgeted as he held the flask up, the clear liquid sloshing within it. He focused on the flask with determined doubt. It just looked like water to him. In a matter of five seconds, he gave up and set the glass on the table with a stubborn, unsatisfying chink. “I can’t. It could be hydrofluoric acid, knowing you.”

Sherlock looked ready to perform his own personal version of a facepalm, and he came close to it, massaging his temples. “No, no, no, it’s not hydrofluoric acid, John. It would have burned through the glass by now. Are you even trying?”

As two men made eye contact, a flash of a man falling engulfed John’s vision in a flashback. The face was blurry, but the hair was a distinct bush of raven curls. John shook his head; both in disagreement with Sherlock, and to discard the engraved image from his mind. John reminded himself that his best friend was still here. Right here. Right in front of him. Sherlock wasn't dead.

“See? You’re better at this.” John patted the table, turning his feet toward the stairs, preparing to leave. “I’m off to bed.” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock frowned. “Alright then.” He couldn’t help but ponder over the odd behavior. John was a man of habit, so the early bedtime was rather out of place. Although Sherlock had to give it to him; it had been an exhausting day. With the suicide and the police investigating, it had swallowed up their entire morning with business.

_Oh._

Sherlock stared at his experiment with realization. John was upset about the suicide, wasn’t he? He was a sentimental man. He glanced to the stairs, now unsure of himself. Should he follow John and confront him, or leave him to his thoughts? Sherlock was the one to cause this, after all. He had given this loss to his best friend and left him to deal with the aftereffects. John would forever link suicide to Sherlock's false death and trauma, and Sherlock didn't know what to do with that.

He listened for any further movement and deduced John had truly followed through with his statement; he had gone to bed. Sherlock decided he shouldn't disturb him further. Shuffling, he returned to amuse himself with chemicals and hypotheses, yet his enthusiasm was dampened.

A few hours later, an odd, petrified noise echoed through the house. Muted, but present. Sherlock perked like a curious dark bird, hovering over his forgotten experiment in anticipation. Would another sound follow?

Another weak, pained noise sounded after a minute's pause, in sync with a twist of sheets. A nightmare.

Sherlock was nimble, pacing up the stairs with the grace of a sly cat. He slunk around the corner to John’s bedroom. The door was open, inviting; apparently John had given up avoiding Sherlock's midnight ranting and early cases. Sherlock listened, training his ears for the faintest of noises. He had yet to enter John's bedroom.

A sob rang through the room, free of his pillow's muffling, anguished and frustrated. Upset.

Sherlock peeked in, his diamond eyes twinkling under John's agape window. The moon peered through like a giant saucer of frosting on a wafer. Shiny objects throughout John's room glowed under the moon, John's long-abandoned cane, his phone, his silver watch, and... his face.

Lines of light trailed down John's cheeks like racing tracks. Tears welled at his lashes and at the corners of his tight eyelids. John slept like a soldier, mostly unmoving, but his head whipped onto the pillow and his fists clawed at the sheets in clear distress. John's teeth were clenched, a bubble of spit popping at the corner of his lips as he grunted out another sob. “No.”

Sherlock shuffled at the doorway. Should he wake him? No, John would surely become embarrassed. Feeling determined not to interfere with John's privacy, Sherlock tiptoed to the glimmering outline of John's phone and set the ringer on blast. 

While he usually invaded John’s room like the flat was on fire (sometimes it was), tonight's circumstances felt too intimate to invite himself into. So he sped down the stairs, flopping onto the couch while he called John’s cell.

He waited precisely ten seconds before he obtained an answer. “H‘lo?” Sherlock hears a sniff and a ruffle of covers. “Sherlock?”

He answered immediately, “The morgue.”

“Wh...what?”

“The morgue. We need to go to the morgue.” Sherlock says, feigning boredom. Fortunately, acting disinterested came naturally. “The liquid was dihydrogen monoxide, John. Those puncture marks on the patient's corpse were not from the hospital. The killer injected it into their bloodstream, effectively killing them when they were weakened. I need to go to the morgue. We're going to the morgue.” Sherlock says, smiling into his phone and feeling clever.

Sherlock knew it was water the entire time.

That evening, John had been acting rather off, so Sherlock offered something to distract him. Identify the liquid, throw John's mind into a case, so whatever was bothering him would flee, or at least numb to a dull ache. Distract him from pain. Because, to quote John Watson himself, that's what friends did.

A pause. “What… you mean it was water? Dihydrogen… mono… yeah. Uh, the morgue? I'm… I mean, okay, then. I'm alright to go.” John lamely replies, still groggy and drained.

“Wonderful.” Except when Sherlock reunited with John at the door, he swore he looked paler in the moonlight.


	5. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YES!!! You guys I'm so happy! I've finished this series!

Once in a blue moon, a case would land on the outside of society, where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be left hiking through muddy hills and tripping over dampened sticks in search for their suspects.

While cases like this were rare, they were always unpleasant. John found that the icy wind would breathe through clothing, and that the path was never recognizable. Every tree was similar to the next. And while John couldn't navigate the forest, Sherlock definitely could. With his bizarre way of thinking, he could recall their location to the exact meter. So, of course, Sherlock wanted to split up.

"We'll cover more ground, John," Sherlock argued, eagerness bleeding into his tone. "It may even spare us a few hours!" 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "You're excluding the hours you'll spend making sense of where I've gone! That is, if you don't forget me and leave with the suspects." 

Sherlock gaped his mouth slightly, seemingly insulted and, if John hadn't known any better, hurt. "I would not." His lips flap for a moment, words dying before he repeats: "John, I would not."

John's lips clip together. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Sherlock's expression was unamused, but determined. "John, as long as you stay on this path, you will be perfectly fine. My path diverges west, but I've studied the maps and calculated the distances. This is safe."

"This is bloody _stupid_. That's what this is. What if I run into them? Hm? Usually, I would call you, but there's no service within a hundred kilometers! How would you know if I found them or not?" John huffed.

Sherlock grinned. "That's why I've brought flares."

"You… oh God… Sherlock, _no_."

Sherlock revealed two red flares.

"You have got to be joking."

"I'm afraid not, John." He grinned at his clever stock. "They're quite small, yes? Fit right into your coat. Light, concealable, handy…"

"This isn't… this isn't a goddamn tampon commercial, Sherlock. This is a dangerous, bloody _stupid_ plan, and you're handing me _flares_. Jesus Christ..." He glared at the detective for a moment, who was watching him with raised eyebrows, rendered silent. "Okay, okay. _Fine._ I'll take the path. If anything happens, you're going to start listening to me?"

"I swear."

"Swear on what?"

"...I swear… on… on my cigarettes."

"Damn right. Go on then. I don't want to be looking for a pair of wandering lunatics when the moon is up."

John was going to regret this. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. That churning in his gut and the anxiety in his throat. The altogether ill-feeling in his stomach. This was going to be bad.

John found himself repeatedly checking his gun. Was it loaded? Yes.

Yes, it was loaded.

Or was he checking it wrong?

Yes, it was definitely loaded.

What if it jammed?

It was loaded.

On more check and he would go crazy. John sighed, stopping to look at the stars. Despite his wish to not let the case lead on into the night, he couldn't deny that the hours were ticking by. His feet were killing him, sore from maneuvering around low-hanging branches and thick weeds to stay on his tiring path.

Fortunately, his mind paused it's conflicting thoughts when he noticed something dark along a fallen log. Unfortunately, when he reached out to examine it, his fingers met warm, sticky blood. _Warm._ This… this…

Alarmed and alert, he heard a growl to his right, and he grabbed his gun. Just barely through the shadows, he caught flashing eyes and a victim rabbit, which had already been flayed and dismembered gruesomely. When the snarling animal approached John, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation. When nothing moved, he crept forward, squinting in the dark to identify the bloody shape. It was a… dog. While it could be mistaken for a wolf, it's coat patterns were sharp, like a German Shepard mix. It was a large one, with powerful jaws and wolf eyes. This was the sort of dog he'd expect to find with a police force. John pitied the dog, however, he was thankful he had trusted his instincts. Through the canines, reddened spit bubbled and foamed. _Rabid._ These people weren't messing around.

"Sherlock, you idiot," he muttered as he scrambled for his flare.

He hesitated. This would alert his location to not only Sherlock, but the others, as well. Hopefully the gunshot would be enough to inform Sherlock that something was very wrong.

When a branch snapped to his right, he held his breath, back pressed against a disfigured oak tree. These men were as blind as he was. Using it to his advantage, he evened out his breathing and fought his racing heart. He forced himself to think rationally, taking in their build and height like Sherlock would in this situation. One was thicker, sturdier, with a noticeable gut; while the other was taller, not as tall as Sherlock, with thin arms and bony knees. _Shoot the larger man_ , he thought, _you can take the skinny one_. With his war face on, he zeroed in on one of the two figures, took aim, and fired.

 _Click_. The gun jammed.

John fought ever urge to pull the trigger again and again as he panicked. Every nerve in his body screamed to do so. His hands were shaking and the trigger trembled, but he was still.

The two glanced around, paranoid. The larger one shouted far to the east, calling for backup. Dog howls erupted in the distance.

If Sherlock didn't hurry up, he was leaning toward the rabbit's fate.

Unexpectedly, a wash of red light sparked above the crown of trees, and John flinched as they popped and rattled, but they weren't fireworks; they sounded nothing like gunshots. It had come from farther up, but west some, showing how much farther Sherlock had trekked than John. Curse his short legs.

The group changed their direction, leaving John to investigate the outburst. John could hear more people though. More dogs, more men. It was more than they could take on. What had Sherlock been thinking?!

This was bad. So so bad.

Dying out in the woods. The adrenaline was fuzzy in his brain, rattling and nauseating. His breath was shallow as he struggled to breathe. Distantly, he recalled his therapist's infuriatingly calm explanation of a panic attack. He knew what a panic attack was; he was a doctor, for God's sake. She had warned him that his PTSD might spark up or latch onto a memory. He had denied her words.

What an idiot he was.

The soil in his hands was cold and moist, but dry enough to crumble. He was tense, wheezing into his arm to muffle his noises. His legs were jelly, and his hands trembled. He had to stand. He had to stand. There were flashlights now, waving over the ground, if they caught him-

The beam fell over his shivery form.

_No, no, no, no, no…_

"Oh, thank..." Sherlock's relieved voice cut into his panic. "John!"

John's lungs became less constricting and he sucked in a ragged breath. Sherlock was here. They were a team. They would solve this together.

He felt significantly safer knowing he had Sherlock's intelligence with him.

Sherlock grabbed at John's coat, sitting him up. His face was tightly scrunched, examining so intensely John thought he would break something.

John let out a jittery, breathy laugh. "You've lost your cigarettes, just so you're aware."

Sherlock's expression faintly softens, although still stressed. He fumbled through John's coat for the second flare as John rested against an uncomfortable tree trunk. "They're not important anyway," the detective responded, shrugging.

John's eyebrows rose. He knew Sherlock wouldn't be saying so a week later while the man paced back and forth within the apartment. That would be a headache of its own. But it was a tolerable headache.

"And you're not hurt?"

John took a second to reply. "I'll be okay."

It wasn't an answer, but Sherlock didn't push it. Both men knew could observe it himself.

Sherlock was fidgety, glancing at the darkness at every faraway bark or unintelligible shout of criminals. "The Scotland Yard is on its way. I told Gertrude to have his men report the flare. Regardless of whether we are safe or not, I organized it as a safety precaution. Very soon, there will be officers crossing our path. I… I apologize... for all of this. I'll understand if…" Sherlock trailed off, unable to force the words out.

John stared at him incredulously when deciphered what the detective was implying. "For a genius, you're an absolute idiot," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're still my friend."

Sherlock didn't reply, but John could see the relief in his calculating eyes.

He checked his phone. "Well, you won't need to worry about working this case at night any longer," Sherlock said, genuinely smiling.

John froze. Was he getting service? What was he on about? He cautiously asked, "Why?"

"It's three a.m."

John's shoulders dropped, shaking as he laughed. "Oh my God."

Smile still playing along his face, Sherlock eyed the flare. "Can you hear that? It's the Yard."

They both stilled, tuning their ears. Sure enough, they watched the twinkling flashlights far in the distance. Their were a dozen police cars, parked with swirling reds and blues above them. Two ambulances were on scene as well, prepared for the worst.

"Looks like that's our ride," John said.

"It seems so."


	6. A Brush with a Bullet

Getting shot was nothing like the movies portray it to be. One myth John particularly disliked was too common in action movies: the protagonist taking a bullet for their friend or lover, which was a dangerous lesson, if you asked John.

Of course, no one ever asked John.

And John… John understood. He'd been to theaters; he'd watched action movies. He knew why the concept of self-sacrifice would tug at one's heartstrings or send thrills up one's spine. But he also understood that it was unrealistic. 

John had been around guns enough to know there were ways to avoid this false cliche and have a similar outcome. You simply had to react before the trigger was pulled.

Easier said than done.

They would've had the disadvantage to the gunman, in this hypothetical case. They couldn't possibly anticipate when their assailant would pull the trigger.

A not-so-fun fact sliced into John's mind for a moment (the absolute worst moment, mind you): the average bullet travels at a speed of approximately 1,700 miles per hour, slicing through the air with the intention to kill. Whoever faced it never had a chance.

John decided that was stupid.

It pummels into his bicep, chipping at the bones and muscles, before skipping out of his skin. One might say he should have been thankful for nothing lethal, but who's ever thankful after getting shot?

Sherlock was there, too, towing John and his shorter legs to find cover, so the Yard could find them. However, the bullet had found John first.

John's head felt like cold butter as the world rolled with his feet. Sherlock must have felt it, too. John's bleat of agony synching with a discovery that his feet were utterly useless.

Fire licked the bullet wound, burning into John's skin and burrowing into his nerves with heat, but there were no flames in sight. His heart palpitated with the rhythm of their feet.

_Ba-thum ba-thum ba-thum._

Another round of bullets sprayed and ricocheted, scattering dust as they found their mark, which, fortunately, was not John.

It wasn't Sherlock, either, thank god, because he was the only thing keeping John moving right then. The detective's hands had caught the fabric under his shoulders, shoving him forward.

There was a pounding of adrenaline in his veins, of their feet, and of the blood in his head that merged into one drowning noise. John strained his ears.  
"John. _John_ , can you hear me?! John!" Sherlock rattled his friend's body. "John!"

Dazed, John finally blinked up at him in recognition. "Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock breathed, "I need you to cooperate with me. I know it hurts, but we mustn't be slow while he is still firing. Do you understand?" He doesn't even try to mask the concern glowing in his pearly eyes, his face pinched in frustration and worry.

John nodded, gasping, "Yeah."

"Good," Sherlock said, getting a handle on John's unharmed shoulder. His calculating eyes drill into John's. "Good. Try to stay focused, John. As much as you can."

John nodded again, his tongue heavy.

Minutes passed agonizingly slow. John merely existed as a boneless weight for Sherlock to carry. His feet twitched. His arm was seeping red and the wound had slightly blossomed out, muscles spasming around the bullet's exit wound.

Unfailingly, Sherlock noticed. He stuttered on the sidewalk, leaning John against him as he freed a hand to work the scarf from his neck. Once it was free, he wrapped it around the wound, like a thick bandage.

"But your... but th'blood..." John gawked up at him.

"It's only a scarf. Calm yourself."

"But the blood'll get..."

Sherlock snapped down at him. "There is a reason I wear it, you know. For emergencies. This is an emergency." He whipped around a corner, glaring at the empty street behind them.

John was not understanding. "I's not even that bad-"

Sherlock groaned at the sheer stupidity of this argument. "It is if you lose enough blood! Don't even argue. You're a doctor, you should know this by heart."

John blinked at his feet as they shuffled to keep up with Sherlock's pace. He did know that. He knew a lot of those... doctory facts. "Oh… I do," he murmured, as if he'd just discovered it.

Sherlock examined his friend sharply, worry gnawing deep in his gut. "Try not to strain yourself."

John was silent for a while, keeping pace with Sherlock's long-strided jogging until a thought drifted. "You thought… you thought that the fireworks thing was… was an emerg'ncy? You used your scarf."

Sherlock grunted. "Please don't try to make conversation right now, John." He peered around the corner, judging the path. "I'm trying to avoid us being shot." With that, he looked to John, "Again."

This pace made John's legs ache. "Where're we… where're we going?"

Sherlock, deciding it was no use keeping John quiet, replied, "A shortcut. It shouldn't be difficult for Mycroft to locate us soon. There'll be more security cameras as we near the center of London."

"Mycroft?" John echoed.

"Indeed. I called him while you weren't responding. He assured me his best team."

Called. Sherlock had _called_ his brother. That was… new. Mycroft had also assured his best team. Did Mycroft even have a team? Apparently. Another lazy thought brought him to realizing Mycroft actually... cared about him, and he wasn't sure whether to be flattered or petrified.

The silence extended.

"Shut up," Sherlock demanded. " _Shut up_. Stop thinking. You're forgetting how to walk. I need you to cooperate, John! Like we agreed?"

John's eyes were glazed.

"John!" Sherlock barked.

The soldier stumbled, "Yeah." He nodded heavily, blinking. "S'rry. Sorry, yeah." More blinking.

The detective readjusted his grip, arm scooped under John's shoulders to hold his deadening weight. John's heels dragged, snagging on the cracks of the sidewalk. Tripping with each step. "John," he said carefully, "John, I'm going to need you to keep up. Like you're pedaling a bike. Forward motions. Like you're _marching_."

Somehow, the similes clicked within John's head because his heels began to lift off the ground, though it was like they were weighed in lead, digging his toes into the ground for more traction.

Sherlock reprimanded himself inwardly. It was all stupid. Stupid, stupid mistakes. Stupid eagerness, stupid pride. He had planned this case to be won. But stupid John chose to be heroic and… no.

His deductions had failed. Every single one of them. Why? Because he had expected John to put his own life before the ridiculous detective. He had never expected for John to throw himself into the aim of the gun that was meant for Sherlock.

And John hadn't even hesitated.

_They had been chasing the criminal for about five minutes, and the man had suddenly whipped around, pistol gleaming and cocked. The muzzle had been perfectly aligned with Sherlock's torso._

The running had been a stalling technique: the criminal had been readying his weapon. Sherlock had expected this.

_John had stepped forward-_

A harsh scowl molded Sherlock's face. Because Sherlock hadn't stopped him. He hadn't even tried to stop him.

_-raising a hand in warning. His arm had been outstretched, bicep reaching Sherlock's abdominal region, and upward, almost as shield for whatever come flying Sherlock's way. His bicep had taken the bullet, as if it was planned._

Maybe it was.

"Sh'rlock," John gasped, his k's clicking at the back of his throat. "Sherlock, can we-" God, his throat was so dry. "Can we slow down?"

Sherlock gnashed his teeth, helplessness climbing. "We're almost there. We're almost there, John. Keep that pace." Sherlock's legs had begun to burn, moving as if they were submerged in thick mud. John had to be worse.

John's knees buckled, folding him like a lawn chair toward the sidewalk. Sherlock couldn't support the soldier anymore, but he managed to catch the man's head before it collided with the concrete.

Sherlock crinkled his eyebrows, frustration digging up a truly dangerous emotion:

Anger.

There was a boiling storm within him. He was angry at the criminal, at his brother, at himself, and mostly, for his best friend. He roared, shaking in fury, _"Mycroft!"_

The outburst thundered through the abandoned street, drumming and ringing against trash cans and doorknobs. Either that, or John's ears were just ringing. The wind whistled a low hum, tickling John's eardrums. A few crickets chirped in response, trilling their songs.

He lingered on the idiocy of their location. Sherlock had chosen it, of course. They had been several miles from the edge of London, trekking through weeds and thorns, alone, scanning for a killer. It had been an immediate trap, and Sherlock wouldn't lie that the possibility had crossed his busy mind multiple times, yet he had dismissed each one.

Sherlock cried.

He had hurt John in a million ways, breaking his trust, challenging his loyalty, constantly betraying the man that would die for him a thousand times over. Yet still, the soldier was at his side, bleeding a wound Sherlock was meant to bleed.

Sherlock couldn't find any strength within himself. No matter how much his mind palace demanded that he lift his legs, he lay crumpled in a lonely ball, tears tracking down his cheekbones, a sob choking his lungs.

The wind was ice, dancing over their crumpled forms and bringing a shiver out of the detective. He was painfully aware of his own splotchy eyes and shiny, tear-tracked cheeks.

A voice murmured from behind him, wary and heavy at the same time, "Brother."

Sherlock didn't even have time to whip around before John was out of his arms, paramedics hovering and chattering over vitals. Sherlock could finally breathe. He could finally think.

His brother looked almost flustered. His hair wasn't quite disheveled, but Sherlock could tell that it had been. His suit was even slightly rumpled. His posture sang tired and exhausted straight to Sherlock's ears. Even John could have seen that.

Sherlock was still battling his rage, though his relief at John's safety had began to dampen it. "Where _were_ you?" he accused, teeth bared.

Mycroft only watched him in defeat. "Whatever criminal you've angered had connections with professionals. They wiped most of our security footage as if it was merely a whiteboard. We're lucky to have found you as it is." His tone was neat and tight, struggling to maintain his composure.

Sherlock's bright eyes impossibly darkened. So that was how they navigated the streets so well. Sherlock had been initially surprised; few people could challenge his memorized map of London.

Sherlock shifted his attention. John was just being carted into the ambulance. Hopefully, he would only need a sling for a few months. But John was safe, now. John was safe.

And the anger had drained away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you'd like a part two to this! I have an idea in mind! :)


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